Have You Heard the One About the Gay Jew in the Trailer Park?

Monday, December 15, 2014

Actually, I usually post my
“Eight Myths of Hanukah” on here this time of year, but after a dozen or so
years, I decided to post "My First Annual Hanukah Card." If you
search the archives at right, you can find my “Eight Myths of Hanukah.”

Every year, I get one of
those Christmas cards from an old friend in Florida, telling me about all that
has happened, most of it bad news. "My shop burned down."
"Mother had another stroke." "My live-in lover is getting a sex
change … again." I have lost track of whether he/she is a him/her this
year or not.

I don’t want to hear all
this drama, and I wouldn’t share so much drama. Isn’t the purpose of
the annual message to show off how your life is more fabulous than
anyone else’s? What fun is there in sending a message if you don’t make
everyone else feel bad about themselves?

So, I decided to write my
own card to the seven or eight people who actually read this blog. Here goes.

Dear Friends,

I hope this message finds
you in good health and happiness as you live the life of your dreams. If not, I
hope you find a peaceful way to end it all with little pain and mess.

My dog, Rose Marie,
continues to be the light of my life. She brings me such joy and is there for
me, as I am for her.

Translation: We are in a
co-dependent relationship.

While I have not found my
soul mate, I did manage to have sexual relations with a variety of men in their
prime, who rocked my world on a regular basis throughout the year. So many men,
I can’t remember all their names.

Translation: I got laid once
... I think. I’m not exactly sure there was actually anyone else in the room.

I am continuing to work at
my dream job where I am responsible for all the communications at the highest
level of government and am called upon to offer my expertise, affecting foreign
policy on a daily basis.

Translation: I still
work as a contractor spitting out communiques like watermelon seeds and have no
clue who, if anyone, reads them.

I travelled extensively
throughout the year, seeing things you wouldn’t dream existed.

Translation: My commute
to work means I spent almost 900 hours stuck in traffic, seeing people do
everything from putting on make-up to picking their noses to masturbating.

I created a lovely outdoor
living space where I can enjoy spring afternoons, summer nights and fall
foliage.

Translation: I shoveled
snow, mowed grass, and raked leaves.

I expressed my true
feelings to one of my neighbors.

Translation: I flipped
her the bird when she complained about my dog taking a piss.

My social life continues to
be interesting and full of new and exciting people.

Translation: I binge
watched American
Horror Story, Orange
Is the New Black,
and every season of Adam-12 on
Saturday nights.

People continue to seek my
counsel and advice as I am a beacon in the community.

Translation: A stranger
asked me how to get to M Street.

And finally, I continued to
enjoy good health and happiness on this journey we call life.

Monday, November 10, 2014

I loved when it was Mother’s
turn to host her Tuesday night Mah Jongg game – so much so that I wrote a book,
On Tuesdays, They Played Mah Jongg,
which led to my being asked to write the introduction for the soon-to-be-released
book, Mah Jongg: The Art of the Game: A
Collector's Guide to Mah Jongg Tiles and Sets.

Yes, those were two shameful
plugs. Get over it. I live in a trailer, drive very old cars with manual
everything, and only buy store brand products. It is either this or Kickstarter.

Anyway, I loved it when it was her turn to host because of
the buffet. All the women worked, so this was also their chance to have dinner
when they were not in play. They had five players, and Mah Jongg is played with
four hands. The fifth bets on which of the four will win. I think six dollars
was the most you could lose, so if you lost six dollars, you were at pie, which meant
you couldn’t lose more but could keep playing. Sometimes they served pie, which
made it even more delightful.

Aunt Anita was always accused of cheating when she was the
fifth. None of these women were my aunts. My mother had no siblings, so all
these women who were my biggest influence were called Aunt. But that is not the
point here. Aunt Anita was also accused of never putting out any food. Well,
that is not entirely true. She would have a bowl of those jellied orange slice
candies and a liter of Pepsi. Unfortunately, Uncle Walter, her husband, would
drink all the Pepsi before the girls arrived.

I don’t know if any of this is true, or if these women were exaggerating.
Mother was known to tell a fib or two to make a point … or hide a secret.

My experience with Aunt Anita was that she was always
generous with her time and things. When I was typing my last term paper for
college, my Royal electric typewriter exploded, even sending off a few sparks.
Mother was on the phone with Aunt Anita at the time and casually mentioned that
my typewriter just exploded while I was finishing a paper. Aunt Anita promptly
hung up. Fifteen minutes later, she was at our door with her own portable
electric typewriter. No one asked her for it. She just showed up. That was the Aunt
Anita I remembered.

Nana died one week before my college graduation. After the
week of shiva and the graduation ceremony,
people no longer stopped by the house. One day soon after, Mother was writing
thank you notes, and there was a knock at the door. Aunt Anita dropped by
unannounced to check on Mother, and she stayed and kept her company all
afternoon while Mother wrote the notes, just to be sure she was ok. Aunt Anita never said
a word. She just sat there with Mother. It was perhaps the most touching act
of friendship I had ever witnessed.

I remember Aunt Renee saying one time, “Anita will give you
the shirt off her back. Just don’t ask her for money.” I really didn’t like
when they talked about her like that.

Nana lived below Anita and Walter in the late 1950s in
Stewart Gardens, and according to her, they would fight about money every night.
Nana would light up a Kent cigarette and listen to them until she got bored,
then she would bang on the ceiling with a broom stick. Nana had no room to
talk. She could squeeze a nickel until the buffalo farted.

Anyway, one night it was my mother’s turn, and she went all
out with enough food for a Bar Mitzvah. Tuna salad, egg salad, smoked fish salad, bagels, potato
salad, pound cake, fresh brewed coffee in the Sunbeam 30-cup percolator. Jews
sure do love their white food. The only thing with any color was the coffee. Oh,
you thought I meant Caucasian.

Aunt Anita arrived first, followed almost immediately by
Aunt Renee, who upon seeing the food yelled with delight, “Oh my God, look at
this spread.” Didn’t bother Aunt Anita one bit.

I will never forget that. Of course, Aunt Renee had an
advantage. She owned a deli for God’s sake. Before buying the deli, her husband
worked at a furniture store, and rumor was all the nice things in her home fell
off the truck as it passed by her house. It was decades ago, so the statute of
limitations has run out.

Well, nothing changed for the next decade or so. Food was
served, Pepsi was consumed, and they all remained friends.

Then, they hit their fifties, and all of a sudden everything
changed.

Aunt Cis developed a hiatal hernia. She couldn’t eat
anything with roughage or that would irritate her throat, so she brought her own dinner.
Mother had a heart attack, so she couldn’t have anything with fat or cholesterol,
and Aunt Anita? Oh she could eat anything, but unfortunately, she died soon
after. It was a sad time.

But, the tragedies didn’t stop there.

There were no more buffets. Two things affect Jews deeply,
death and a lack of food.

Due to all the dietary restrictions, the ladies who Mah Jongged were brown bagging it. They had
to switch from coffee to iced tea, and decaffeinated at that.

I used to joke about how one couldn’t keep up with who could
eat what or which. I thought I was funny, making fun of these post-menopausal women.

One should never joke about post-menopausal people because some day one
will become one of the post-menopausal people. Karma is a bitch.

It all started around age forty-nine.

I farted.

I know that is no big deal. However, I never farted. I came
from a family who farted all the time, but I never farted. I was not like them.
I shit a lot due to irritable bowel, but I never farted. I could never
understand how people could fart without shitting themselves. My friend, Danny,
calls that sharting.

But, I farted. I didn’t just fart once. I couldn’t stop
farting. It was awful and painful and uncomfortable, and of course, smelly.

What was happening to me? What did I do to myself? They
weren’t just little farts. Oh no, I never do anything little. These were loud,
long, wind shear farts.

When I sneeze, I wake up the dead in the next county, so it shouldn’t
have been a surprise that what was coming out the other end was just as noisy and
disruptive.

I kept checking my drawers to see if I shit myself. I didn’t.
I was just farting. Non-stop.

I then had to examine my diet. I haven’t missed a meal since
1962, so this was going to require some serious investigating. Then, I found
the culprit. Pasta. To test out my theory, I had a plate of spaghetti.

I farted. I farted all night. I felt as if my insides were
going to explode. Technically, they did.

So, I cut out pasta.

Then, I farted again.

Now what? Another inquiry was conducted.

Could it be bananas. I thought they only made monkeys fart.
I ate a banana.

I farted.

I hate farting. Some people enjoy farting, but I hate it. The
worst part is I don’t fart in daylight. No, I fart at night. How am I supposed to
sleep with the sheets flapping all night long?

When I do doze, my farts wake me up. Oh hell, they wake up
the neighbors.

Rose Marie sleeps under the sheets, so I kept checking to be
sure I hadn’t gassed her to death.

I could just eat what I wanted and fart to my heart’s
content. But, I’m single, and if I had any hope of getting married, I needed to
nip this fart problem in the bud.

I finally managed to alter my diet enough to eliminate the
eight-hour farting spells. But, with that came another problem.

Eating out.

I recently visited my friends, Danny and Mike, in Michigan,
and they picked this restaurant with one of those weird menus where all the dishes
are made with dozens of ingredients – seventy-five percent of which make me
fart.

I picked something and picked at it. Danny made fun of me,
saying I couldn’t eat anything and how could anyone cook for me because I am so picky. Then, he
leaned to the side and farted, right there at the table.

I wish I was as comfortable in social situations as he is. It
takes a brave man to be a pig in public.

Monday, September 29, 2014

Last week, the iPhone 6 was released, or was it
the 7? Maybe it was the 8. I don’t even know which one I have anymore. As you
can tell, I was very excited about the release of yet another expensive phone,
which will be obsolete and replaced two times before you finish reading this.

Did our parents or grandparents go through this
hassle? Nana had an avocado green, rotary dial wall phone for as long as I can
remember. She died in 1985 having never owned a push button phone. Grandma had
a white table top rotary phone for as long as I can remember, and she died in
1992 also having never owned a push button phone.

I remember when my mother had the phone company
replace our flesh-tone rotary phones with white push button phones, so we could
have that wonderful feature “Call Waiting.”

I hate Call Waiting.

I think there is nothing ruder than Call
Waiting. “So, what did Marge say … oh wait … I’m getting another call. Hold
on.” In other words, I will talk to you until someone more interesting or
important comes along.

Dear Abby, who is also dead, said when one is
put on hold by Call Waiting, only wait for thirty seconds then hang up. I still
do that. I don’t know how many times I have been called back and heard, “Did I
disconnect you?” No, asshole, I hung up.

I never take the other call. I hate being
interrupted, so I just let it ring.

I have a friend who calls, and if another call
comes in, automatically says good bye and hangs up. He is more of an
acquaintance now that I think about it.

I have another friend who when the Blue Tooth
ear piece came out refused to go anywhere without wearing his. He wanted
everyone to know he had this thing in his ear, and when he got a call, he would
loudly start the conversation to be sure you knew he was on the phone. The conversations weren't even interesting.

I have a neighbor who always has her Blue Tooth
in her ear. She is walking her dog at 4:30 am while wearing that damn thing.
Who is calling her? We live in a trailer park. The only calls we get that early
are when Scooter needs bail money.

I am the only person I know who will let a phone
ring if I am having a conversation with someone. I have never said, “Hold that
thought; I need to answer this.” I had a boss who found this disturbing. She
would be talking, well more like barking, and my phone would ring. I would
ignore it. That is why they invented Voice Mail. Ironically, this same woman
would always interrupt me when I was on the phone.

None of this is relevant anymore because
everyone texts these days. I still talk, and when I do, it is on one of five
rotary phones I have in my house.

Back to the lines. Mother didn’t wait in line to
trade in her flesh-tone phone. By the way, flesh-tone is more like
cadaver-tone. The phone man came out and exchanged them for us. We also leased
the phones. They were warrantied and weighed a ton.

I never stand in line. If I go to a restaurant and there’s a line, I leave. If I am at a car club event or Bar Mitzvah and everyone is standing in line for the food, I wait until everyone has gone
through the line. Why stand? The food will be there when they are done.

I also hate being behind people at a buffet,
especially when there is a sandwich assembly thing going on. People are so
stupid and rude. Just pick up your meat and bread, slap some mayo and mustard
on your plate, grab some tomatoes and lettuce, and keep moving. You don’t need
to completely assemble your sandwich while standing in line and hold up
everyone else.

The worst are the half people. You know these
people. They take half of everything. They cut bagels in half, muffins in half,
donuts in half. No one eats the other half. I repeat, NO ONE EATS THE OTHER
HALF. Just take the whole goddamn thing! They are just trying to act demure as
if they have never eaten a whole donut. Please. I can see your ass. Everyone on
the East Coast can see your ass. You’ve eaten a dozen donuts while watching The
View.

How did I end up talking about food? Oh right.
I’m Jewish. All we care about is food – regardless of the venue.

“Aunt Ida, I went to a Klu Klux Klan meeting
last night.”

“What did they serve?”

This is about phones and our planned
obsolescence.

The iPhone reminds me of the 1955 Chevrolet.
This car was so perfect they redesigned it the next year and the year after
that, and for 59 years, they have been trying to recapture the essence of the
1955 Chevy.

I understand technology is essential to an
ever-changing world, but do we go too far? What can this phone do that mine
doesn’t? I can call, text, check Facebook every five seconds to see if another
picture of Rose Marie got any likes, and I receive emails – 90 percent of which
are ads and junk.

The worst part is the expense. Grandma and Nana
had a gas bill, an electric bill, a water bill, a phone bill, and rent. That
was it. The television was broadcast free over the polluted air waves and
received by their antennas. They even got up to change the channels. They
didn't need 600 channels. No one needs 600 channels.

I have the above bills plus an iPhone bill and
cable bill, which includes fees for Internet and phone. I love my cable bill. I wanted to cancel my cable land line at one
point (replacing it with an old fashioned land line), and they said my bill
would increase by $50 a month. I wanted to cancel 596 of the 600 channels I
receive, and they said my bill would increase another $50 a month. I am paying
for channels I have never watched to save money?

Bundling.

I hate bundling. My life is one big bundle of
wires. The more bundling and wireless I go, the more crap I have plugged into
the walls.

And now, you expect me to wait in line for a
phone I don’t want or need?

Never.

What I really want to do is unplug. Completely
unplug.

If I got one of those converter boxes for the
television, I could watch the five channels that broadcast my shows. I could
pay for internet access alone, and with the Roku, I could watch other shows as
they are released. I would get rid of the DVR. Is it that important that I
never miss a show? I could wait for the show to appear on Hulu. I could get a
normal land line.

Well, I did the math, and basically, I am
screwed, and so are you. To get a normal land line, I need to pay for installation
of phone jacks in three rooms, since the kitchen has the only phone jack.
They don’t put phone jacks in houses anymore. I had to buy a brand new home.
Getting rid of the cable and going with only internet access and Hulu and
Netflix would end up costing more.

Why don’t I just watch whatever is on my five
channels when I am awake? I used to do that before they invented the VCR. Maybe
I should get a VCR? I wonder if my Betamax is still in the shed?

I could be really radical, and I could get rid
of the iPhone and not have any cell phone at all. I lasted 42 years without a
cell phone. Yes, I was the last guy to get one.

Or, I could just sit here and kvetch.

But, don’t expect me to stand in line and
kvetch. I do my kvetching sitting down.

Tuesday, August 19, 2014

The older I get, the less
tolerance I have for people. Dogs, yes, people, no. I also thought dog owners
were better people than non-dog owners, but this past year has taught me even assholes are allowed to adopt pets.

From the moment I adopted Miss
Rose Marie, I have encountered everything from the sublime to the ridiculous.
For those who don’t know, she has three legs. She’s fine. All of you only have
two, which is why she feels sorry for you.

“What happened to her leg?” You
ask.

“Nothing.” That has become my
answer. “Nothing.” If you think that is rude, it is much better than what I want
to say, “None of your fucking business.”

Then they get insistent. “Her
leg, what happened?”

I look down and say, “Nothing.
Her legs are fine.”

“No, I mean she’s missing one
leg.”

“Yes, I know.”

“What happened?”

“Nothing.”

Then I usually get, “Asshole.” “Jerk”
and even “Faggot.” Yeah, I got that from a kid. Lovely. I can only imagine that
one’s parents.

People stop their cars to ask me
what happened to her. They never say hello. When I refuse to tell them, they
tell me I am rude. I’m rude? Seriously?

What if I were walking with a
disabled child, and someone stopped his car and asked, “What’s wrong with him?”
Who would be rude?

What if I had one leg and
someone stopped to ask me what happened? Who would be rude?

To those of us who have pets,
they are part of our family, and your nosy questions about our pets bother us.
Of course, 99 percent of you reading this wouldn’t be so rude.

One day, a bus driver slowed
down, opened the door and said, “I don’t know what happened to your dog, but I
just want you to know she is beautiful.”

Now, that is an appropriate
thing to say.

I just don’t understand the
fascination with her missing leg. I am more fascinated with the parts she has.
I can’t do anything with a missing leg.

I have experienced this before.
Miss Serena Rose Elizabeth Montgomery went deaf at eleven years old and blind
at twelve. For the last two years of her life, I would carry her across the street
when we were out for a walk. She could smell grass, so I was always sure to
have her walk on my left with the grass to her left, but curbs and streets were
an obstacle.

Once after carrying her across
the street, some smart ass said to me, “What? Is your dog too prissy to touch
pavement.”

I said, “No, asshole. She’s
blind and deaf.”

I know. One of these days,
somebody is going to punch me in the mouth.

When I first adopted Miss Esmeralda
Rose Alice Ghostly, she was thin and her teets were sagging due to being a
puppy mill bitch for eight years. As I was walking her around the armpit of
Maryland, otherwise known as Rockville, somebody screamed at me, “Did you breed
that dog enough? You should be ashamed of yourself.”

I was dumbfounded. I flipped him
the bird.

I know. One of these days,
somebody is going to reach over and break my finger.

While Rose Marie is a magnet for
rude and nosy people, she is also a dog to be feared.

She isn’t aggressive or rabid.
She walks on grass, and she has only three legs. Fear the tripawd on the lawn!

Take that in for a minute.

Yes, she walks on grass.

Before I go on, keep in mind,
Esmeralda lived in the trailer park with me for a year. I walked her at least
six times a day. This takes me back to Mount Pleasant, which is
neither a mount nor pleasant, discuss. I used to walk Serena at least six times a
day, and I can’t begin to tell you how many people were concerned with how
often I walked my dog. Again, whose business is it anyway? I lived in an
apartment, and that was how she got her exercise.

Why is everyone so fascinated
with everyone else? Do I criticize how you raise those future serial killers?

Where was I? Oh yes, Esmeralda
in the trailer park.

No one ever gave me grief about
walking her. Esmeralda had four legs, but she was very timid and she would walk
right next to me, never behind, never ahead. She didn’t sniff. She just walked.
She did her business and went on.

I also am one of the few people
who cleans up after his dog. In my neighborhood, there are no swales. That is
the grassy area between the sidewalk and the road. Apparently, it is a Florida
term like lanai. This means they do their business in a yard. I am a good
citizen, so I make sure she does her business as close to the sidewalk as
possible. That way I am not standing in someone’s yard while she puts herself
in a north-south position to pinch a loaf.

On Rose Marie’s adoption day, I
walked her every ninety minutes to get her used to the neighborhood and going
outside. She was house trained in twelve hours.

Sidenote: If you adopt a dog,
walk it every ninety minutes the first two or three days, and he or she will be
house trained quickly. Making a dog sit in a cage for five hours or just hold
it for five hours is not house training. When I was an adoption counselor at a
rescue organization, I can’t begin to tell you how many people would bring a
dog back because it couldn’t be house trained.

“What did you do?”

“I made him hold it for four
hours in his cage, but he went anyway.”

“Can you hold it for four hours?”

“No.”

“You just answered your own
question.”

Also, a crate is a cage. Call it
what you want, but it’s a cage. I refuse to say crate.

This world is full of idiots,
and I have to live in it.

Anyway. Back to Rose Marie’s
first day.

I walked by a dog-owning
neighbor’s yard, and she came running out. She saw my little three-legged dog,
and she said, “You need to keep that dog off my grass.”

Rose Marie was just sniffing
around and had already gone near the mailboxes.

“Oh, she’s just sniffing around.”

Then she hesitated and said, “Well,
the vet said my grass has fleas, so you don’t want her on my grass.”

“What do you do with your dog?”

She didn’t have an answer.

A few days later, I found out
she thought my dog had leprosy and her dog would catch it and lose a limb. I
wish I could make this shit up.

I decided to keep Rose Marie off
her grass in case her dog had moron-cooties.

Then, we had another winter from
hell. This was Rose Marie’s first winter. She loved it. We couldn’t spend
enough time outside. The only problem was finding a place to poop. Peeing was
easy as that is a squat, but with only one front leg, she needs to find a place
where she can keep her balance while in pooping position.

The easiest thing about having
all that snow is cleaning up the poop. You can scoop all the snow around it or,
better yet, it just sits on top of the ice. It is much easier than trying to
clean it up on a wet un-mowed lawn. You dog owners know what I mean.

One neighbor actually had some
exposed grass in her yard. Again, Rose Marie had already done her business, but
she wanted to feel grass under her feet, so she walked on the grass. No sooner
had she taken a step when this ancient battle axe came running out her door.

“Keep that dog off my grass.”

“She is just walking on it. She
isn’t going to do anything.”

“I don’t care. Keep that
three-legged dog off my grass.”

My jaw dropped. I froze, which
was easy since it was six degrees with a wind chill of minus twelve.

We moved along.

Do you know that bitch had the
nerve to wave at me every time she drove by after that?

One day, she was having trouble
unfolding her husband’s wheelchair after she retrieved it from the back of
their Ford Escape. I walked over and asked if she needed help. While I unfolded
the chair, Rose Marie stepped on her grass, and she said, “Keep your dog off my
grass.”

I locked the chair for her,
looked her in the eye and said, “Go fuck yourself.”

Her husband thanked me. Poor
guy. He had to screw that at some point.

Then the piece de resistance happened. I got a call from my dog walker telling
me someone called the police on him because Rose Marie walked on his grass.

Before I go on. We rent our
lots. This grass, crabby, weedy, dandylionee as it is, belongs to the park, not
us. We mow it. There is only one descent lawn in the entire park, and the lady
who lives there has a dog and doesn’t care if I take a dump on it.

Again, I was dumbfounded. The
police thought the neighbor was ridiculous, but they had to answer the call.

We never found out which
neighbor called, and no one has stepped forward.

But wait, there’s more. Just
last week, I was walking Rose Marie, and she peed on the common area of grass
near the mailboxes, and a neighbor, another dog owner, who never walks her dog,
just lets him pee and poop in her driveway, yelled at me about letting my dog
pee on the grass.

“Where is she supposed to pee?”

“In your yard. Pee kills grass.”

That did it. I was done.

In front of a couple of
neighbors, who were retrieving their latest issue of Redneck Monthly from their mailboxes, one of which was the flea
lady herself, I calmly told this wrinkled, chain smoking dog owner (who is
probably younger than I am) – yes, she also owns a dog, “Dog pee killing grass
is the oldest wife’s tale in the book. Dog pee kills ants. It is a natural
fertilizer. In order for it to kill grass, the dog would have to pee in the
same exact spot for two months straight at least three times a day. And another
thing. She was born this way. She has no disease that your mangy, flea bitten,
non-exercised, neurotic yappy dogs can catch. Leave me and my dog alone. I
clean up after her, which is more than I can say for most of you. I will walk
her where I want, when I want. And the next one of you who calls the police on
my dog walker better grow a pair and step forward.”

Then I snapped my fingers,
turned on my heels, and Rose Marie and I sashayed up the walk.

The following Sunday, as we
walked by the wrinkle’s house, she yelled over to me, “Good morning.”

I pretended I didn’t hear her,
so did Rose Marie.

If you want to pee on my grass, visit my site first, and by one of my
books: www.miltonstern.com.

Tuesday, June 10, 2014

Have you ever
had a conversation with someone who spends the entire time formulating a
reaction to what you are saying but doesn’t actually hear what you are saying?

Do you tell
someone something, and then you hear that person tell someone else the same
thing, only to hear it told completely wrong?

Are you a
writer who gets letters to the editor about columns you’ve written, and they
supposedly quote you or put words in your mouth you never said?

If you
answered yes, you are I.

The other
day, one of my four bosses – the joys of contract work is the blurring of the
chain of command – asked to see me, and he said, “Well, do I have hell to pay?”

“What?”

“You said, if
I you weren’t offered this position, there would be hell to pay.”

Let me be
clear. I have NEVER said “hell to pay” in my entire five-plus decades on this
planet. I have said some pretty nasty things and made some pretty idle threats
using language that would make a crack whore blush, but I have NEVER said “hell
to pay.”

He even said
he had a witness. Well, the witness proved him wrong.

By the way,
the position was eliminated when the alcoholic abandoned it, so there wouldn’t
be a way to offer it. Therefore, there was no hell to pay, imagined or not.

This is my
life.

When one is
loud and opinionated – Who? Me? – one spends a lifetime being misquoted.

A few years
ago, I was in a meeting with a hotel representative planning a conference with
someone from my organization who is known to be pretty shady. I said, “For
every 50 nights we reserve, there should be a comp room; therefore, we should
have three comp rooms since we have reserved 160 nights.”

I thought,
where in my sentence did I say “board”? There he was getting ready to react to
something that wasn’t said, but reacted anyway. Well, one shouldn’t do that
with me because my next comment was, “When did I say board? Did anyone in this
room hear me say board? Now, you need to shut up because you have been given a
free room, meals and drinks for five years without informing anyone in the
organization, which is essentially stealing from us as that was our room, food
and drinks. It says so right here in this contract in black and white that they
have provided you these things.”

Some people
forget I actually can read. They also forget I actually listen … when I want
to.

Growing up,
family members would ask me to recall conversations. What always amazed me was
what they didn’t remember. My mother was famous for selective memory. My father
on the other hand had no listening skills. He would hear a sentence on the news
and go off without any context.

Reporter: “A
man riding a bicycle was hit by a truck during last night’s thunderstorm.”

Dad: “There
go the Russians, screwing with our weather again.”

OK, he was
one aluminum hat short of a trip to St. Elizabeth’s.

Recently, I
wrote a column about the mid-1970s, mid-size, rebadged Plymouth Fury for Hemmings Classic Car. In the article, I
mentioned how I remembered watching The
Tonight Show with Johnny Carson and Jay Leno and Clint Eastwood were guests
on the show. Jay Leno mentioned that Clint Eastwood drove used Plymouth Fury
police cars.

A few days
after publication, I received a letter forwarded by my editor. The author said
in an angry and condescending tone intended to get me in trouble that I “specifically
mentioned Dirty Harry driving Plymouth Fury police cars,” and I was wrong. He
then went on to set me straight (good luck with that) and listed all the cars
Dirty Harry drove, none of which were Plymouth Furys.

Well, I kind
of freaked out at first because I am a huge Clint Eastwood fan, and I have seen
all his movies, and I know Dirty Harry never drove Plymouth Furys, but had I
accidentally said that and it was overlooked by the fact checkers? I did an
electronic search of the publication and the words “dirty” and “harry” never
appeared.

You now have
proof I don’t write for a porn magazine. Think about it.

I was
furious. My editor said this was normal, so I laughed about how I was sitting
at home getting angry in a room with Rose Marie while eating egg whites and
Brussels sprouts (I am always on some weird diet).

However, I
decided to write this illiterate car nut and let him know I never mentioned
Dirty Harry in a letter that thanked him for supporting our publication and reading
my column. He responded that he equates Clint Eastwood with Dirty Harry and
that was the excuse for the mix-up. Never once did he apologize or admit he was
a moron.

My favorites
are doctors. I have been to too many doctors who don’t hear a word you say.
They just think you are crazy or they are waiting for a break to look up what
they think you said on the internet. Recently, I had to change primary care
physicians after going to one who would look up symptoms on Google images; he
didn’t even use WebMD, which always leads every symptom to cancer.

I especially
appreciate the doctors who act as if they don’t have time to listen and just
want to see the next patient, so their day will end soon. I had one who
seriously heard nothing I said, and when I asked for a prescription for
estrogen just to see if he was listening, he gave me one. I was an emotional
wreck with tender nipples for months, but the hot flashes did subside.

When I went
to my current doctor for the first time, he listened to every word I said,
which almost gave me cardiac arrest. And, he heard me when I told him that,
too.

My faith in
actually finding people with listening skills was restored.

The saddest
part is when you put information in front of people, and they choose not to
read it. I edit and write a car club newsletter. Recently, I included an
article about an upcoming event – The 25th Annual Orphan Car Tour. I
included it in two issues of the newsletter, meaning it appeared for two
months.

Ask me how
many emails I got from people in the club, who have access to the newsletter
and get emails announcing events that essentially said, “Hey, did you hear
about this Orphan Car Tour? You should write something about it for the
newsletter.”

I especially
enjoyed the post on Facebook, where a member wrote, “The car club should
promote this Orphan Car Tour.” He then included a link to last year’s tour!

A board
member wrote, “I wish I still had my Corvair, or I would go.” I about spit up.

Instead, I
responded, “That is last year’s tour. This year’s tour has been written up in
the newsletter for two months now. A Corvair is not an orphan. Why in the hell
do I bother?”

When I posted
pictures of the tour on Facebook, which by the way, no one from the car club
attended, one comment was, “Oh. Was that today?”

Wednesday, May 21, 2014

If you are into drinking games, drink a shot
every time I say crap or drek in the following!

When I lived
in Mount Pleasant, which was neither a mount nor pleasant – discuss, there was
a bodega on the corner owned by a nice Korean family. I don’t know if they were
North or South Korean. They had different hairstyles, so I am assuming South.
Also, a bodega refers to a Latin owned store, but we called this a bodega. What
is the Korean word for Bodega? Sijang is the Korean word for market. So, let’s
say they owned a sijango.

Anyway, one
day I went into to pick up some items, and amazingly, they always had everything. I
mean everything. This place was one-third the size of my home. The customer
before me left with no bag, and the owner said, “Don’t use my store to check
your bank balance!” Apparently, the person kept taking away items in hopes of
getting his debit card approved, and when he reached the magic number, decided
to forgo any groceries.

I asked if
that happened often, and she answered in the affirmative. I wondered why they
didn’t go to the ATM. Then I thought about it. These are the people I end up
behind at the ATM. They punch every key hoping to get cash, and even when the
machine tells them they are broke, they keep trying until I usually say, “It is
obvious your card isn’t working; mind stepping aside?”

I think it
would be easier for them to rob a store with a pocket potato.

These same
people end up in front of me at the Metro kiosk. They keep slamming their
Smartrip on the reader and will not accept the fact that it has no funds. “Just
jump the turnstile already, I have to get to work!” That is the first time I
have written turnstile, and I had no idea it was spelled that way.

Not only do
people check their balances in the most annoying way, but also they gauge the
market this way as well.

Here is an
example. How many of you shop on eBay? How many times have you bid on something
only to see that the reserve is ridiculously high? When someone sets a reserve
at a wishful level, they really have no intention of selling the time. They are
just testing the waters. They may tell you they refuse to take less than what
they have invested in the item, but that is bull shit.

If you
really wanted to sell something, you would start the bidding at a reasonable price and have no reserve. That is what I believe.

Do you go to
garage sales? The people may be trying to make a few bucks selling all their
old crap to you, so you can have new crap, but the real reason for a
garage sale is to get rid of the old crap without having to haul it away.

Years ago,
when we would hold rummage sales for charity, around 1:30 pm when the crowds
died down, a Fred Sanford type would show up and make us an offer on all the
remaining drek. We would take the offer because the whole point was getting rid
of the drek. It was already donated by people who didn’t want it, and we didn’t
want it either.

I have never
held a garage sale, so I don’t know if this still happens. I am the guy who
donates his crap to charity or a dumpster depending on how crappy my drek is.

If you
really don’t want something anymore, are you going to price it so high, no one
else will either? Some people do because they think their shit smells better
than your shit. Well, darlings, all our shit stinks, and the same goes for our
old, crappy drek.

I am not a
hoarder, and I hold no sentimental attachment to objects. I have a table that
belonged to Nana. It is a nice table, but both Esmeralda and Rose Marie chewed
away at one of the legs. I have it in my bedroom, where you can’t see the leg.
I only keep it because it makes a great night stand. However, I would put it on
the curb as soon as I found a table with two drawers that could replace it. If
Nana were really attached to the table, she would have taken it with her when
she died.

I had a
Greek boss tell me once. “You only own one thing your entire life – the plot where
you are buried.” You don’t even own the casket. Your family will be making
payments on that until they pick out their own then their kids will make
payments, and so on, and so on. It is like Heather Locklear and her Faberge
Shampoo.

Wow, I am
really aging myself. Perhaps, I should only shop for furniture with a lid?

This market
research doesn’t just apply to clothes, furniture, National Geographics and
unintentional sex toys. I think it happens most often in the hobby world –
especially car collecting and the like.

Antique car
prices over the last several years have become ridiculously inflated. This, of
course, is a discussion for another time. As many of you know, I write a column
for Hemmings Classic Car called “Detroit
Underdogs.” I focus on the cars you can still buy for less than $9,000 and be a
part of the vintage car hobby. Personally, I think $9,000 is still way too high.

Some call
these cars crap. Well, any queen can drive a Cadillac. It takes a real man to
show up at Pebble Beach in a Ford Granada.

Browse the
car classifieds such as Hemmings, eBay or Auto Trader, and you will see that
even the most mundane daily drivers from our respective childhoods are listed
at very high prices. If you go to a vintage car insurance site, you will see
the values listed for these cars are still realistic. That means, if you buy a Mercury
Monarch for $18,000, your insurance company will give you an agreed-upon value
of about half that amount. And if you do buy a Mercury Monarch for $18,000, you
won’t be able to drive it because the men in the white suits will come and take you away with a net.

Around six
months ago, a man listed a 1961 Rambler American Super four-door sedan with
16,000 original miles on a Rambler Car Club site for sale for $4,000. The car’s
only options were full wheel covers and automatic transmission. It was a radio
delete car with no driver’s side rearview mirror either. Had it been all
original, he might have sold it for that price, but it had been repainted at
some point, though not very well but, granted, in the original color. There were
dings, a dent and lots of thin areas in the paint. It is better to be all
original with dings and dents than repainted with them. The bottom had its
share of surface rust, the engine and transmission leaked, and the engine compartment
needed some serious cleaning and detailing. The spark plug wires weren’t even a
matched set.

At the time,
a Rambler guy offered him $3,350 for the car. Considering the seller bought the car for
$2,500, that was a pretty good offer. Also, a 1961 Rambler American Super
four-door sedan in #1 condition, which means, flawless, pristine, concourse quality,
or in laymen’s terms, fabulous, is valued at $3,125. In #2 condition, it is
valued at $2,750. This car was a #3, and I will be generous and say closer to a
#2 than a #4. It was going to need at least $2,000 worth of work and the
addition of a driver’s side rearview mirror to make it safe enough to drive in
modern traffic.

He refused to
let it go at that price because he wasn’t quite ready to sell it yet. When he
told me this, I decided not to make an offer but did tell him to contact me if
he ever did decide to sell it.

So, why did
this shmuck list it? You know why, and he got his answer.

Six months
go by, and I get an email asking me if I am still interested in the 1961
Rambler American. He contacted the first bidder, but that guy went ahead and
bought an AMC Hornet Sportabout instead. I wonder if he bought that beautiful,
all original, mint green one I saw for $2,750? See? The deals are still out
there.

He should
have sold the Rambler when he had the chance.

We exchanged
a few emails on the car, and he sent me a picture of the original owner
standing next to it. He told me how he had to sell it because his kids were in
braces and the expense of owning an old car was not a good idea now.

When will
people learn that their personal financial situation does not figure in the
actual price of an item? After all, I didn’t fuck his wife, so those aren’t my
kids, and their teeth aren’t my responsibility.

I should whine that I have to
maintain a mobile home lifestyle with Rose Marie at my side.

Knowing already what
his answer would be, I explained the condition of the car and what it needed to
be road worthy. I offered him $2,800, which was more than the value of a #2
condition car, and it was $300 more than he paid for it.

His answer
was he couldn’t let it go at that price, and he was going to keep it.

If his kids’
braces were that important, he would have sold it and saved himself the expense
of insurance, registration, etc., for a car he didn’t need that was going to
cost him money in repairs if he wanted it to remain roadworthy. So much for straight teeth.

Fortunately, I saved
myself four hours at the MVA (Maryland’s version of DMV, which is still a pain
in the ass) had he actually said yes.

Yuckduck had
no intention of selling the car, and he also knew his asking price was still way
too high.

I wanted to
say, “Don’t use me to check your balance!”

If he
contacts me again, I am going to offer to shove the car up his ass.

Monday, January 6, 2014

Dr. Sheldon
Cooper is right. If we don’t follow the rules and keep things in proper order,
the entire world will dissolve into chaos, and we might as well just forage for
food and kill or be killed. At least that is how I feel after this past weekend’s
snow storm.

For the last
two winters in the Trailer Park, we haven’t had much winter weather, and I
complained. Me and my big mouth. On Friday, the meteorologists predicted we
would get a dusting of one inch of snow on grassy areas. I shouldn’t be angry
because the television meteorologists are usually drama students who couldn’t
make it in New York or Hollywood, and I don’t know about your home town, but all
of them here are Gay! I know firsthand. Don’t worry about how I know, just know
that I know.

What we
ended up with in Jessup was around six inches of snow and freezing temperatures
creating an ice rink on our streets in the ‘hood. One of the 400 rules, which
first attracted me to this community, was that your walkway and the sidewalk in
front of your house were to be shoveled no more than eight hours after the snow
ended. I would like to report that most of my neighbors complied, but I cannot.

Curiously,
everyone shoveled their driveways, creating mounds on either side, but on my
street, only three of us actually shoveled the sidewalks in front of our homes.
I was the youngest. The other two have a combined age of 162, so there was no
excuse for what Rose Marie and I encountered.

To compound
matters, the park management hired a redneck with a Ford F-250 Super Duty and a
snow plow attached to the front to clear the streets. Well, he managed to pile
all the snow onto the sidewalks and create a sheet of ice on the street. What
is the use of plowing if you don’t treat what you leave behind?

I have never
been snow climbing or glacier climbing or whatever extreme sport involves
climbing up icy mountains, but after this weekend, I don’t feel a need to add
that to my bucket list.

Rose Marie
with her three legs managed quite well and like all dogs enjoyed the weather.
She also carried around her share of ice chunks. She loves ice cubes, so this
was an ice cube buffet for her. I, on the other hand, with only two uncoordinated
legs, managed to slip and slide and fall a few times. Do you know what they
call a Jewish ballerina? A klutz!

The last
time I had to deal with a situation like this was when Serena Rose Elizabeth
Montgomery was alive, and we were hit with a huge snow storm in DC in March
1999. Serena died before Snowmaggedon in 2009; she must have known it was coming. The 1999 storm was another one
that caught everyone off guard, so streets weren’t cleared. In Mount Pleasant (which
was neither a mount nor pleasant, discuss), drivers were leaving their cars all
over the place, and the streets weren’t plowed. However, everyone in the neighborhood
shoveled their sidewalks. The problem was you couldn’t walk across the street
because of the snow banks and cars left every which way. I called the police to
complain about all the abandoned cars and the unplowed street. They came out and
plowed the street, but did nothing about the abandoned cars.

I then
learned of the city policy that if a car is parked in front of your driveway or
let’s say some moron left his car in gear, causing it to roll downhill into
your car, not causing damage but keeping you from getting out because every
time you moved, his car moved, it was your responsibility to have the car
towed, not the city’s. Can you believe that?

I once
parked in the driveway because Serena was having a health crisis and I needed to
get her to the vet (the psychos upstairs had the use of the driveway, and I usually
had to park on the street). When I came out, there was a car parked on the street
blocking the driveway. I didn’t know whose it was, and when I called the police,
they said it was my problem. Yet, when I parked 22 feet from the corner rather
than 23 feet, they didn’t hesitate to give me a $50 parking ticket. Get this. It
was right after they passed the law that you could park 15 feet from the corner.
Did I fight it? You better believe it – just as hard as I fought the speeding
ticket someone got using plates I had turned in to the DMV. That gem of a
situation took three trips to DMV and two trips to court to prove I didn’t own
a white Toyota Rav 4. Did they care that the plates were stolen, probably by a
DMV employee? No. When I moved to Maryland, I obviously didn’t turn in my DC plates.
I didn’t want to get a ticket for driving a Hyundai Accent through a red light
on New York Avenue.

Anyway, when
I made it out to 16th Street during the March 1999 storm, I noticed
the street was plowed with all the snow piled up on the sidewalks. I was just
amazed at how much they did to make it easier for drivers to get around, yet
pedestrians had to traipse through an obstacle course. What made me angrier was
they kept telling everyone to stay off the roads. Bitch, the roads were the
only safe place to be!

So here I am
15 years later, and I am dealing with the same issue. I have to walk Rose Marie,
so she will go pee and poop. By the way, that whole thing about dogs pooping in
a North-South direction? So true! Rose Marie always faces North or South. My
toilets face West, which may explain my irregularity.

Everyone
made sure they could get out of their driveways, but few made it possible for
us to walk. What I did notice was that the older the resident the more likely
the sidewalk was cleared. One thirty-something smart ass said as he saw me sliding
around, “You should get spiked shoes.” And in the next breath, “I need to go
get a snow shovel.” Really, dude?

One of the
first things I bought when I moved in was a snow shovel. It was July, and I got
a Lowe’s employee to drive one of those forklifty things with a ladder, so he
could climb onto the top shelf to get me one. I am sure he had a few things to
say about the OCD queen who just had to have a snow shovel ready when the temperature
outside was 92 degrees.

Well, the rules
said shovel your goddam sidewalk, and I follow the rules.

I should
thank the selfish thirty-something because when we returned home I remembered
that I had bought a pair of soccer cleats back in my Mount Pleasant days to
help me negotiate the icy conditions when walking Serena. They still fit, and I was finally able to walk without falling on my face. I always fall forward. I even have a scar on my chin from falling on my face. This makes no sense, since I have a large built-in airbag in my trunk.

One other
thing happened during that 1999 snow storm. I was walking back from the market with
bags of groceries, including three dozen eggs in preparation for Passover. I couldn’t
tell where the road ended and the sidewalk began, and I slipped and fell on my
face, breaking all the eggs. Some driver, who was able to get through because
the main road was paved and treated, laughed at me. If I could have moved fast
enough, I would have mooned him.

I managed to
get out this past weekend, since the roads were cleared of course. Then,
another unfollowed rule popped up. Why is it so difficult for people to brush the
snow off the roofs of their cars. You can do this with a broom, people! I
really don’t appreciate having ice projectiles hitting my truck and windshield
while I am going down the road. These same people would be pissed if their
windshields were damaged – the narcissistic bastards. I consider this the
height of inconsideration.

On Sunday, I
had to meet my publisher at a Starbucks in Chevy Chase, Maryland. I expect when
I go into a coffee shop to find adults either having conversations or working
on their laptops. What I found surprised me, and now, I know why I rarely go to
Starbucks.

I know it
was a crappy snowy day, but why are you bringing your little obnoxious loud
children into a coffee shop? Is this how you entertain them? Take them to
Chucky Cheese or Gymboree or that place with the box of balls they can play in.
Oh wait, I go to the place with the box of balls – well the one with a sling
and a recovery room.

Not only
were there a dozen kids in there, they were all over the place. I ordered a
large coffee, which confused the barista because it wasn’t a double half-caf espresso
latte with a cinnamon stick, nutmeg and a hint of whipped cream resembling a
cumulous cloud. As I turned, holding my extremely hot cup of coffee (how the
fuck do they get it so hot?), a child charged to the counter in front of me. I
almost burned her. Then I went over to the cream and sweetener station, and
this yuppy mother kept reaching back from her table for napkins and pushing me
out of the way because her ill-behaved devil spawn spilled something. She was
giving me dirty looks because I was apparently in her way. Then her kids
proceeded to run all over the coffee shop to the annoyance of the few mature
adults in the place. My mother would never have allowed this or taken us to a
place like this had they existed in prehistoric times.

They think
they are perfect parents because they brought their kids to Starbucks.
Seriously? You were two lazy or self-absorbed to take them where they could be
entertained and not disturb people who were looking
for a quiet place to work or have a conversation.

The rules
clearly state that kids do not belong where adults go to escape. Period.

This is
nothing new. These “mother of the year” parents have been around for decades.
When I waited on tables in an upscale restaurant in Williamsburg, Virginia, in
the 1980s, we had such a mother, who was pissed when we expressed our concern
at all the food her unruly children had thrown all over the floor and the mess
they made of the booth, upsetting all the diners around them. She yelled, “You
should be ashamed. Your restaurant does not cater to children.”

I responded,
“No, we don’t. They don’t have wallets. And, if you don’t control your
children, I will.” I actually got applause.

Follow the
rules, or we will continue to dissolve into world of chaos! And, shovel your
goddam sidewalks! And, brush the snow off your cars! And leave your horrible
children at home with a babysitter … or a wolf dressed as a grandmother. You decide.